Stand and Deliver
by sincerely-TheBreakfastClub
Summary: This is set in England during the 18th century. No magic. Baz is a highwayman that robs stagecoaches and Simon is a rich prince with too many secrets. They might end up killing each other, or they might end up falling in love. (I apologize for any incorrect facts or if the language is weird. I just tried to make the dialogue more proper.) I'm not a historian, I'm a crazy fangirl!
1. Death Threats and Missing Shirts

**Baz**

The leaves crunch beneath my boots as I wrap my fingers tightly around the pistol. One of the King's stagecoaches is supposed to come through this way, and I intend to not be caught off guard. It is a somewhat pleasant day; golden sunlight streams through the tree branches above me and the wind is gentle.

Luckily I have an unobstructed view of the road, and I am still comfortably hidden behind a large stump. I look over my weapons once more, and then turn my full attention to the weathered path in front of me. A moment later, the sound of rumbling wheels reaches my ears and my heart jumps. I pull my mask down. _Showtime._ I move closer to the road and press my back against a tree. The stagecoach rounds the bend and is finally within my sight.

I wait not a minute more, and then casually saunter out―my pistol raised high―into the path of the horses. The stagecoach jerks forward at my sudden appearance, and the horses whine and pull at their restraints. I smile; this is my favorite part. _It was her favorite, too._ My smile wavers but I keep my arm strong and hope my voice carries.

"Stand and deliver," I call grandly, smiling without shame. The driver panics and yanks a little too hard on the reins, causing the horses to stumble. The stagecoach comes to a halt and I can't help but admire the delicate craftsmanship. The wheels are coated with a rich, gold color, and the hubs are bright silver. The body panels are a deep mahogany, and the door has intricate drawings of leaves and branches that curl around the edges. It's exquisite. _And exactly the right type of coach a king might ride in._ Black curtains cover the windows, so the inside is still concealed to me. _Let's change that, shall we?_ I stride forward, arm outstretched, and I point my pistol straight at the driver, still smiling.

"Afternoon, my good gentleman. How might you be doing on a nice day such as this?"

"I-I am doing . . . j-just fine. And your-yourself?" He stutters out, wringing his hands in worry.

"I am quite well, thank you." I say, smartly. He starts to rummage through his pockets and I shake my head. "That is not the reason of my visit today. If you would be ever so kind and open the door? I did not bring this," I wave my pistol around, "to harm you. It is only for . . . persuasion purposes. If need be. Understand?"

He nods vigorously and jumps down from the driver's box. He straightens his wig and brushes off his coat before grabbing the handle of the door and pulling it open. I lift my pistol and rest my gloved finger on the trigger, aching to just _squeeze. He will die. I will avenge you, mother. I'm so close and he's-_ a drooling mess of golden curls? _This . . . this must be Prince Simon. Wonderful._ I tap the barrel of my gun against his temple and his head shoots up as he twists around wildly. His eyes grow wide as he sees me and he slowly raises his hands.

I inhale sharply and I cannot look away. I don't _want_ to. His eyes . . . they are so _blue._ His thatch of hair is tousled with sleep, and he has three moles on his right cheek. His brownish-yellow coat is crumpled on the floor of the coach, and he's only wearing a ruffled shirt and red trousers. (His outfit looks horribly put together. He probably has no sense of fashion whatsoever.) Snow's shirt is unbuttoned at the top and I can see a dusting of freckles across his neck and shoulders. _Bloody hell._

"W-what do y-you . . . are-are you going t-to . . . I-I have m-money," he stammers, snapping me out of my stupor and replacing my dazed look with a sneer.

"Why, if it isn't Simon bloody Snow?" I answer, as he proceeds to look even more bewildered.

"He is to be addressed as Your Highness," the driver mutters, but I still hear him.

I whip around and seethe, "I will call him whatever I damned well please. Let us not forget who has the weapon. A loaded one, might I add." The driver then clambers back into his seat and attempts to not look like a frightened child. I scoff. _Coward._ I turn back to the prince and see that he has ignored my threat and is currently trying to . . . intimidate me? (He still looks like he just awoke from a nap.) I sheathe my (her) pistol and his eyes study me carefully, until his face sparks with recognition.

" _Pitch_ ," he growls as his eyes narrow in resentment.

I mock bow, one hand over my heart and one behind my back, as I sneer maliciously. "The pleasure is all mine, _Snow._ Although, it's _Captain_ Pitch to you. How nice it is to finally put a face to a name. Even if that face is rather hideous." _Ha! Who do you think you're kidding? That boy is something else entirely . . ._

Snow looks rather taken aback at my insult, but he quickly recovers. He smiles evilly, and takes a step out of the coach, trying to look down upon me. However, he is a bit shorter, so he has to look up in order to meet my eye. I raise my brow, but that just makes him smile more.

"Nonsense, it is an absolute honour to finally meet _you_ , _Pitch._ " He spits my name like poison. "It isn't everyday I get to make the acquaintance of a lowly, disgusting highwayman, now is it?"

"I suppose not. However, I was not looking to consort with a brat like you, I was hoping to meet the _king._ " His smile drops from his face and turns into a grimace.

"You were going to kill him, weren't you?" He looks like he's in pain.

I laugh dryly. "Well I wasn't exactly going to shake his hand and invite him in for tea."

"Go to hell," he says, shakily.

I click my tongue and lean in closer. His eyes are glued to the ground and he looks anxious. _Good._ "Foul language coming from such a sophisticated prince? My my, what _would_ your mother say?"

Well that does it. He lunges at me, drawing a hidden blade from his belt, and thrusting it forward. I practically yawn. I quickly sidestep the attack and he misses me completely. I grab his arm roughly, twisting it behind his back until he cries out. I neatly remove the small sword from his tightly clenched fingers and he growls at me. I let out a breathy laugh. "I swear, you think you'll get anything you want if you just growl loud enough. But unfortunately," I put my mouth right against his ear and he shivers as my lips brush his skin, " _that is simply not the case._ "

I push him away all at once and he stumbles, falling to his knees before me on the dusty road. _And what a sight that is, my god._ I try not to dwell on it.Snow jerks his head up, and his blue eyes are on fire.

"You know _nothing_ of my mother, and why would you? You are a worthless thief and a coward," he hisses, and then suddenly stops, like he's remembering something. He flashes me conniving smile as he stands. "And you couldn't even save _your_ mother."

I'm back on him in a flash, grabbing him by the collar and slamming him against the side of the stagecoach. I reach down to my boot and pull out a long dagger, enjoying the familiar weight of it's black hilt and blade in my hand. I place the tip right under his chin and he swallows hard. _Bloody hell, he has the showiest swallow I have ever seen._ I move closer and I give him a look of pure and true loathing.

"I would watch your _tongue_ if I were you. Otherwise, someone might just come along and cut it out of your pretty, pretty mouth, and what a _shame_ that would be," I whisper darkly, and he whimpers. "Don't you dare speak of things you can't understand, you'll get yourself _killed_ that way."

I could kill him. I could do it where he bloody _stands._ I _should_ kill him. But I'm a thief, not a murderer. Not yet, at least. I shove him away from me and wipe my gloves on my coat, as if touching him disgusts me. (I'm not sure it doesn't.)

I take out her pistol again and point it straight at his head. "On second thought, let me see that money you claimed to have. Or I could shoot you. The choice is yours."

 **Simon**

Pitch immediately goes for the light brown satchel that's still in the stagecoach. He picks it up and shakes it, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he hears the clink of coins and gold. He slings it across his shoulder and looks at me through his mask. Then he dives back into the coach to steal more of my belongings. _Fantastic._

Pitch is . . . _different._ He isn't like the other highwaymen, at least that's what I've been told. (I've never dealt with one before because I usually have all of my guards with me. Highwaymen don't touch the coaches that are protected; there's too much risk.) There is always stories about him; everyone seems to have something to say about the infamous Captain Pitch. (There is absolutely no way in hell I am calling that good-for-nothing scoundrel, 'Captain',out loud. All of the highwaymen call themselves 'Captain'. It's idiotic.) Some claim he steals only from the king and then leaves everyone else alone. Others say he kills anyone who doesn't have anything to give. I'm not sure what to believe.

People also talk about his mother, Lady Pitch. They say she was once the most feared highwayman in all of England, but only for the rich. If people were wealthy, and had plenty to spare, she would rob them blind. If people were poor or did not have much for her to steal, she would slip coins into children's pockets, press gold pieces into shaky palms, and distribute food to all the empty bellies. She was a hero in the eyes of many, but a villain at the same time. She was always smiling, whether she was being a dirty thief or a kind-hearted stranger. And she was always being hunted. She broke so many laws that the king had to make new ones just for her. Not only was she a dangerous highwayman, but also a _woman_ dressing as a man. Both are punishable by death. Her secret was revealed early on, but that never stopped her. The king's men could not catch her; she was cunning and sly, with enough tricks up her sleeve to rival a bad traveling magician.

But after starting a usual job and calling out, "Stand and deliver!" with her pistol raised high, she made a mistake. She had brought her son along. They didn't know that the king was right down the road. They didn't know he had most of his soldiers with him, carrying loaded weapons. They didn't know they could not outrun them. They didn't know that a child would be left motherless.

The roads were still full of pilfering highwaymen, but not one of them came close to the brilliant, Lady Pitch. That was true for a very long time, but about two years ago, a new Pitch arrived. He started out as a simple highwayman, but as soon as he let the information slip that he was Lady Pitch's _son,_ he quickly became as famous as her. He was known for wearing all black―with the exception of a white shirt―in memory of his mother. Captain Pitch carried her pistol with him on every job, and never removed her black velvet mask from his face.

I know what I said was cruel, but it truly was in the heat of the moment, and he _has_ threatened to kill me multiple times since we met. And now he is stealing my things. So.

He bangs his head against the edge of the stagecoach as he climbs out, and he winces. (He really is quite tall.) I take a step back and see that he has something wrapped around his gloved fingers. I swear, and start to lunge for it, but he easily brushes me away. _He was not supposed to find that. It was never supposed to be stolen. No! It was all I had left of her and I could not let some filthy rogue take it from me!_

"Give it back!" I roared, swiping at it with my hands. He moved his arm above my head and swung it back and forth. _He's toying with me. That bastard!_ "You cannot steal it! It doesn't belong to you!"

"Oh?" He asks, curiously. "Then whom could it belong to? Certainly not you, Snow."

"It was my mother's," I say quietly, my arms falling to my sides as I slump in defeat. I look back up at him, and I could swear a guilty look flashes across his face. But it was gone too fast to tell. Instead, he smirks, and holds it up a little higher so the sea-green jewel glitters in the low afternoon sun.

"Well I have to say, Snow. Your mother had lovely taste. This necklace is absolutely stunning," he fingers one of the pearls, "and would you look at these black pearls! This must of cost a fortune." He slips it into his coat pocket. _I'll kill him. I will._ Then he just stands there, smirking, as his startling grey eyes shine silver through the dark mask. His hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck with a silk ribbon, but now a few strands curl around his jawline. His reddish gold skin glows in the sunlight, and he looks untouchable. His white shirt is laced tightly, and he's wearing a long, black coat with lacy cuffs and a turned-up collar. His black trousers are noticeably tight _,_ and his thigh-high leather boots are turned down at the knee and caked in mud. _Noticeably? Where the bloody hell did_ that _come from?_

Pitch gives me another once-over with his piercing gaze and then grins wickedly. "Take off your shirt."

"What," I ask, confused, as his eyes glint with danger.

"You heard me. Take off your shirt. I quite like it, and I think it would suit me well to have it." My mouth opens to say something, but nothing comes out. I close it. "Cat got your tongue?" He asks, his grin growing wider.

"No! You can't have my bloody shirt!"

He takes out his dagger again, sighs, and starts cleaning his fingernails. Then he casually points it at me, like he's _debating_ whether or not to put it straight through my chest. "Or we could see how well that shirt looks in . . . _bright red,_ perhaps?" _He really does not know when to stop, does he?_

"Fine, you bastard," I say, and I start to unbutton my shirt. He pales slightly, and his cheeks flush pink, as if he didn't expect me to _actually_ do it. I suddenly get the strangest feeling that he doesn't really want the shirt _at all . . ._

"Well?" He asks impatiently (I guess it was nothing) as he taps his foot. I grumble about the cold, and how the hell I'm supposed to explain why I wasn't wearing a shirt to my father, while I undo the rest of the buttons. I slip it off my arms and fling it at him, and he catches it with ease. I stare at him for a minute, as his eyes roam all over my bare chest. I cross my arms and he looks up at me, flashing a lopsided grin. "Thanks for the shirt," he says joyfully, then turns on his heel and starts to sprint towards the forest.

I scream in frustration, and I don't even bother to chase after him. I watch him throw my shirt into a large puddle of mud near the edge of the road, and then he bloody _winks_ at me.

"I'm not finished with you, Pitch! I will find you, and when I do, I'll kill you!" I cry, as he darts in between the trees like a bloody animal.

I can't see him anymore, but I can hear his words echo through the trees. "You can only find me if I let you, dear Snow . . . And I have feeling that you will find me _very_ soon."


	2. Colours and Best Friends

**Simon**

"I am going after him, Penny. I cannot let him get away."

Penny sighs, and looks up from the thick, dusty book she was not to be reading, but is anyways. "I realize that, Simon. But you don't even have a plan."

"Yes I do!" I say, frantically trying to think of a plan.

She sets down her book and looks at me incredulously. "Really? Do enlighten me."

I swallow and rub the back of my neck, not meeting her unconvinced eyes. "Well, I-I figured I could . . . I was going to . . ." I bite my lip and glance at her sheepishly. Her eyebrows raise and she looks at me, amused, as if to say, 'I told you so'. "Yes, you are correct, _Penny._ I don't have a plan but I thought I would just go out there and―".

"Simon," she interjects, "you can't exactly walk into the forest, call his bloody name, and expect him to run right up to you and turn himself in. Pitch may be a roguish fiend, but he is also clever, and rightfully so. You don't become as famous as him just by stealing money and looking good doing it. It's the smart ones you must watch out for."

I laugh, but it immediately sounds too loud in the quiet room. Penny is staring me down, and I am losing horribly.

I would like to say I am a rather brave man and that I do not easily back down from a challenge, but when it comes to Miss Penelope Bunce . . .

I love my best friend. I do not know, nor want to imagine, what I would do without her always _around_ me. She might be leaning against me in my room because she's cold and I'm always the right kind of warm for her. I might be _this_ close to doing something incredibly stupid and she's that voice inside my head telling me to quit being so idiotic. (It even _sounds_ like her.) We might be completely lost in the dungeons and secret corridors under the castle, and yet, she's the one who grabs my hand, tugs one of my curls, and pulls me out into the sunlight. She even helped me explain to Father how I managed to come home bloody shirtless earlier this afternoon, and he was a little less angry with me when Penny was there. (She still giggled like a madman when I told her how I lost my shirt, and I told her to shut it.)

But right now? With the dim glow from the candle on my desk illuminating her in a hazy gold? She looks like a god. She has all of the power in the galaxy, and it's resting in her deadly gaze and wicked grin. She terrifies me to no extent. And she _knows_ it.

Her face breaks into a knowing smile, and the fabric of her dress swishes against her bare legs. Her dress is magnificently blue today. I say that, because it is nothing but swirls of every shade blue I have ever seen. Navy, cobalt, ink, royal, cyan, azure, and cerulean are all mixed together in a delicate fashion, and those are just the shades I recognize. (You tend to have an eye for it when your clothes are often the only thing you get to decide for yourself.) The waist is lined with small, sparkling crystals that shine like stars against the blue sky fabric. The silk straps are hanging off of her light brown shoulders, and the plunging neckline is adorned with violet jewels. Her wildly beautiful hair pulled back into a bun on top of her head, but loose strands have escaped and now curl around her cheekbones.

The dress is absolutely lovely, and I would bet all the money I possess that Penny hates it with everything she's got. She _hates_ wearing dresses. The only way she will wear them is if they are the most extravagantly colourful gowns in all of England. She says that if she's going to wear torturous traps of silk and ruffles and lace, she might as well wear the boldest, riskiest dresses no one else dares to try. No one can wear the colours like Penny can.

Today is a rainbow made of only blues. Yesterday was a bonfire of reds and oranges and yellows, with curling tendrils of black and grey around the edges. She looks stunning no matter what she wears.

Penny goes on daily lectures about the simplicity of men's clothes compared to women's clothes, and how unequal the treatment of women is in our day of age. (I have to wear wigs when Father has guests or other important royals over, and they are the single most irritating thing known to man. I hate wearing them almost as much as Penny hates wearing corsets.) As soon as she sneaks into my room, she loses her stockings and shoes so fast I'm not convinced she doesn't magick them off. She also makes me loosen her corset and when I do, she always lets out a giant exhale, like she's been holding her breath for hours. Penny tells me she doesn't have enough blood in her brain to have an intelligent thought when it's tightened all the way. I tell her to just not wear it and she looks at me like I told her we should run away and join a band of gypsies. Apparently they take an extremely long period of time to put on. _How would I know that in the first place?_

Penny is the smartest person I have ever met. She isn't even allowed in my room; her mother is constantly reminding her of how 'unladylike' being around me is. And yet, despite her mother's warnings, she still manages to find a way into my room without my guards noticing. Devil knows how.

I can almost hear her mother's shrill voice whining, 'Penelope! It is not proper for a young women to be consorting with young men, alone, before she is married! It simply is not right!' Oh, how Penny _hates_ that. But she's already affianced to a bloke named Micah. If I bring him up, she starts lecturing me all over again about how women are given away like objects, and I guess that is true, but I know she secretly likes him.

"Then what _are_ you going to do, my darling Simon?" Penny smirks at me like she knows everything in the world, and most days, I think so too.

I sigh and dramatically fall onto the chair she's sitting in, my head landing on her lap. Her hands go straight to my hair, and not long after, she's winding her fingers around my curls and tugging gently. I love it when she does that, and I don't even think she realizes she's doing it half the time.

We stay quiet for awhile, and I watch as her chest rises and falls with steady breaths. I pick at her dress and trace shapes onto her legs and arms. Sometimes they are intricate shapes with no lines to connect them, and sometimes they are just our names, written over and over on her warm skin.

"I have to get it back, Penny. It's all I have left of her," I whisper, my eyes drooping closed in the receding light of the candle.

She bows her head down and bumps her forehead against mine, and I breathe in the smell of dry sage and spices until I cannot focus on anything else. "I know, Simon. I know," she says in a voice so small I can barely hear her. "I-I just worry about you. You are so brave and kind and clumsy and I love you for it, but you are also so very reckless and stubborn. I fear it will get you killed."

"You know how much that necklace means to me. I cannot, will not, let him pawn it away like a cheap piece of jewelry. I can't. It wasn't even part of the-".

She sighs loudly and shakes her head, lifting it away from mine. "That doesn't mean you have to rush in during the night, guns blazing, and get it back. If you just give me a little more time-". _Time. I need to go. Now._ I stand up suddenly, and she jumps. I walk over to the bed and grab my black satchel, slinging it across my shoulders and stuff it with an extra set of clothes, a small amount of money, and a couple apples I keep in my room. I pull on my hunting boots and I reach for the doorknob when Penny tells me to wait. Her voice cracks and I see tears shining in her eyes. I look away, knowing if I watch too long, I won't be able to leave.

"At least let me walk you to the stables. That is where you are headed, is it not?" Her voice is strong enough, but I can hear it waver.

"Yes," I say softly, and without another word, she snatches the jacket I purposefully left behind, and pushes it into my arms. I do not argue; I know better.

We glide silently through the hall that leads from my room to the courtyard, and Penny clutches onto me. I hope she'll let go soon. I really need to do this. The courtyard is glowing with moonlight, and stars twinkle high above us. The stable door is unlocked (the servants must not have come by yet) and the lantern on the inside is still flickering brightly.

I stride over to Cherry, my beloved horse, named after my second favorite thing in the entire world: sour cherry scones. (Penny will always be first.) When I was little, I swore up and down that Cherry's coat was cherry red, just like my scones, but I was the only one who could see it. Many people just laughed and tousled my hair, but my mother always encouraged it. My father told me to grow up.

I gracelessly climb onto Cherry and adjust her reigns while Penny tucks my satchel into the saddle pouch. I remembered my pistol this go around, so I take the time to remove it from my bag and slip it into my jacket. But as soon as she sees it, she cries out and squeezes my thigh tightly.

" _Please_ , Simon. Don't go. You-you have to . . . it's so _dangerous_ out there _._ We'll find another way, I promise. We'll go first thing tomorrow and I _will_ help you and . . . don't go. Please," she says weakly, her grip loosening on my leg.

A tear streaks down my face and I lean down to kiss her cheek. She laughs shakily, and I notice she is crying too. "You aren't going to listen to me, are you?" She asks in a way that says she already has my answer.

I lead Cherry out of the stable and to the edge of the road. Penny walks alongside us the whole time.

"I have to find him, Penny. I don't have any other choice."

I'm already aways up the road but I still hear Penny's words echo through the darkness.

"Yes, you do, Simon. You always have a choice. I'm just not sure you're making the right one."


	3. Screams and Pistols

**Baz**

Well _that_ was fun. I swear, if the look he gave me when I threw his shirt in the mud could kill, I would be on the ground right beside that shirt. It was incredibly worth it, though. _His chest . . . it was . . . well . . . very nice. (Liar.) Fine, it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Besides his blue, blue eyes. And his golden hair. And his tawny moles._ I sigh, and rest my head in my hands. My bed creaks as I shift forward onto the edge, and I stare down at my muddy boots.

 _I might as well march myself right over to the gallows and put a noose around my neck, because I am nothing but wrong. My life, my heart, my mind― it is all wrong._

I'm killing myself. Every day that I continue to live this life I am forced to call mine, I die just a bit more. And yet, I do things like stealing shirts from gorgeous princes, taking their mother's necklaces, and telling them I'll see them again. Saying I am stupid or idiotic doesn't even come _close_ to the truth. I'm long past that point. What _do_ you call a person who spends _years_ asking himself the same questions, again and again, and _still_ does not know what the answers are? Insane, most likely.

I don't know why I cannot love girls, despite how desperately I try. I don't know why I can't change myself. I don't know why I was not brave enough to save my mother. I just do not know. I am the epitome of hopelessness.

The fire crackles loudly, and I can hear a log thump against burning embers. I startle at the noise, and realize that my room has grown dark with night. My candle has burned to a pool of dripping wax and the rest of the cottage is silent.

I live in a small but sturdy cottage, deep within Locksglass Forest, with a young couple and their two children. Many years ago, Caelia and Caleb badly needed food and medicine, as Caelia was with child. (Twins, actually.) My mother stepped up without hesitation, and traded the jewelry she had recently stolen. She gave them food, medicine, and even seeds. (They now have their own little farm behind the cottage.) They were so grateful to her that they gladly took me in whenever she had work.

Before I stayed with them, I lived with my Aunt Fiona. However, she disappeared quite suddenly, and Mother never found her, despite spending weeks combing the forests and nearby villages. My mother decided that the villages were too dangerous, and that I would be better hidden in the forest, so that's how we found the cozy little cottage.

Caelia and Caleb have a young girl and boy, around thirteen years of age now. They named the girl Natasha, after my mother, when she continued to bring them everything they needed to keep their small family alive. The boy was named Oliver, after Caelia's late brother.

Ever since I was a baby, my mother would scoop me up into her lap, brush my hair out of my face, and whisper into my forehead, "I will be back soon, little puff. Stay safe, stay hidden. I love you." After she did that, Mother would stick a knife in her boot, slip a velvet black mask over her sharp nose, and dash out into the forest to be the most incredible highwayman alive.

Oliver and Natasha found me, when they were playing make-believe in the woods. I was dying; I had no food or water, too much blood on my clothes instead of it coursing through my veins, and a crooked nose. In a couple weeks, I was healed and healthy. Caelia and Caleb absorbed me into their family, and even gave me my own room. I was fine. Physically, anyways. Mentally fine? Not in the slightest. My head was full of fallen masks soaked in red, pistols that exploded bullets and rang in my ears, heavy bodies that sank into black, and wicked teeth that carved triumphant smiles.

My nightmares were worse. Screams, that only I could hear, beat against my skull when I closed my eyes. Sometimes they were my own, high-pitched and spiked with terror, as scalding tears burned my cheeks and blood stained my hands. But mostly they were my mother's, ripping through the air around us with pain and despair. I will never forget that night, for it was scorched into my mind to be forever remembered.

I was only eight when Mother decided I was old enough to go along with her on a job. The sun was fading in the twilight sky, and her gloved hands gripped my little fingers as we snuck around the trees and brambles like wild cats. There was a ball at the castle that night, and she had heard whispers of a very wealthy widower travelling through a nasty, treacherous stretch of road. Coincidentally, the forest surrounding that road was ours, so my mother sent word to the other highwaymen that she had laid claim to the young man with rumored riches. And they knew better than to disobey Lady Pitch's warnings.

I was crouched behind a thorny bush, my mother's breath still tickling my neck, even though she was already hidden behind a tree closer to the road. "Watch me, Basilton, and learn. But do not forget, come out for no one. You must wait for me to fetch you," she whispered, as my head bounced up and down and I grinned with excitement. I was only half listening.

In the distance, rumbling wheels and stamping hooves sounded, and my mother crept forward, balancing on the balls of her feet with her pistol in hand. I could barely contain myself; I was _thrilled_ to be watching my mother do what she did best. She was my hero. She was my highwayman.

The coach turned up the road, and Mother leaped out into the path of the horses with such agility and grace, I could not believe my eyes. Her eyes glinted with mischief through her mask, and her pistol was raised high. 'Stand and deliver," she called grandly, smiling like she had all the power in the world. The driver violently pulled on the reins of the horses, and the stagecoach came to halt in front of her. One of the lanterns was swinging back and forth on its hook, and the warm light casted devilish shadows across my mother's face. She looked downright _frightening._ And I had never admired her more.

She tapped the coach's door with her gun, and it just started to open when another stagecoach emerged from an almost invisible side road. And all of it's sides were flanked with soldiers upon horses. The driver of the first coach whipped the horses, and they practically flew away. I watched my mother's face go deathly pale, and her arm fall against her side. It was the _king,_ late to his own bloody party. The Devil knows why.

Soldiers rushed towards Mother, and men's angry shouts were bouncing off of the trees. She turned on her heel and started to sprint away, but there were just too many of them. They violently grabbed her arms and twisted them until she cried out. I was frozen and the thorns were scratching lines down my face. The king jumped out of his bloody coach and walked straight over to my mother. The soldiers had her hands pressed against her back, and her head was being pulled up by her long, raven hair. My mother's loaded pistol was lost to the dust of the road, and she couldn't reach for her knife. I tried to scream, but my lungs were broken.

The king reached towards her face, to remove Mother's mask, I suppose, but she snapped her teeth at him instead. That's when he struck her across the face. I could not move. He laughed darkly, and smiled with crooked, yellow teeth. He raised his arms and slowly turned as he yelled eagerly, "Gentleman! We have _finally_ captured the infamous Lady Pitch, after years of searching, we have _found_ her!" Loud jeering erupted from the soldiers, and a lone voice was suddenly heard above all the others.

"Let us kill her!"

A chant started, and tears were already spilling from eyes.

"Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!"

The king laughed again, and slammed his boot against my mother's knees. She collapsed to the ground, shouting in pain, and tears made streaks down her dirty face.

The king began to yell. "For thievery, sedition, destruction of property, murder, countless misdemeanors, treason against the king, and _many_ more unspeakable acts of infringement, I sentence Lady Pitch of Locksglass Forest . . .". (He paused for effect, that _sadistic bastard!)_ " _to death!"_

The soldiers cheered excitedly, and the king was handed a shiny pistol. He pressed it against her temple, and that's when I tumbled through the bush, and burst into the crowd, screaming and crying to not kill my mother. Everyone of them turned to watch me run blindly towards my mother, but I was the only one that saw the pleading and fearful look in her eyes, telling me to _run._

One of the king's personal guards slithered forward, and smiled like a serpent when I started to shake and tremble. The king brushed me off and told his guard to get rid of me, and then he returned his attention to my mother. The guard had oily brown hair and ashy lips, and as he dragged me away from my mother, I heard her spit out vile curses. But then he stopped, grabbed my chin, and forced me to watch her and the king.

"I want you to see her _die,_ you worthless brat. And then I'll _kill_ you."

The screams tore from my throat and did not stop. The king grinned and pulled the trigger. My mother's screams _did_ stop. They were replaced with the boom of the gun and the roar of the soldiers. I had never wanted to slaughter anyone more in my entire life than I did right then. The snake-like guard collided his knuckles against my face, and everything melted away.

When I awoke, she was gone. All that was left was a dusty pistol and a blood soaked, black velvet mask.

Branches outside snap loudly, and I jump up from my bed, reaching for my pistol. I cannot seem to find it, so I pat my boot to make sure my dagger is there. It is. I am just as good with my dagger as I am with my pistol. I angrily wipe away the tears that escaped during the memory, and I silently make my way out of the cottage. I am careful not to wake anyone; Natasha and Oliver are sleeping unaware in the next room, and I swore to Caelia and Caleb that no harm would ever come to them if I could help it. The night is cool, and the stars are glittering like jewels in the dark sky. I pause, and listen for another sign of the possible danger lurking about. A loud crash comes from between two trees a little to the west, so I circle around, trying to get behind the intruder.

All of a sudden, I feel something hard being pressed into my lower back, and I hear a low, deep growl come from behind me. I grin with delight, because there can only be one thing whose growls sound like _that._ (He is obviously a better hunter than I had originally thought. Not many people can sneak up on Captain Pitch.)

I don't even turn around. I do not have to.

"Why, Snow, is that your pistol, or are you just happy to see me?"


	4. Beautiful Laughter and Deals of Revenge

**Simon**

I roll my eyes so hard it practically hurts.

"No, you bloody idiot! It is obviously the pistol I brought along to shoot you with!"

The small bush underneath my boot snaps as I move a little closer, and the moonlight illuminates the forest in a grey haze. Cherry whines in the distance, and I hope I tied her reins tight enough. (The trees and brambles got too dense as we continued through Locksglass forest, so I left her in a clearing a couple hundred paces away.)

I began my search at the road where Pitch robbed me, and then started to comb through the trees in the direction he ran off in. After awhile, all of the trees looked exactly the same: gnarled and rough and huge, and I often concluded that I was lost. But when wisps of grey, piney-smelling smoke became visible against the stark white moon, I followed it without delay.

Pitch tsks tsks me, and says in mock disapproval, "My my, Snow, is that any way to treat me? After all we have been through? I should say not!"

I growl in response, and press my pistol harder against his back. "Shut it, highwayman, and give me back what is rightfully mine!"

"Ah, skipping the pleasantries today, are we, Snow?" I can _hear_ his smirk.

I chuckle bitterly. "If you think I would ever care enough to know the state of your well-being, than you would be _sadly_ disappointed."

His laugh rings out through the still night, warm and loud, while it bounces off the trees. He laughs like we are old friends, telling jokes by a large fireplace while tea burns our tongues. My god, he is a _strange_ one.

He raises his arms from his sides and cries out way too happily for someone who's being held at gunpoint, "That is such a shame, for I am simply _grand_ , Simon Snow! What could _possibly_ be better than having a pistol shoved against my back by the most bothersome, spoiled, imbecilic little _child_ in all of England? Isn't my life _fantastic_?"

"That's it!" I cry, grabbing his shoulder and twisting him around so I can put my weapon right against his temple. Pitch winces at the cool metal, and his smile is pained. His grey eyes are shining with sadness, but he remains upright and stubborn. "Give it to me. Or I shoot a bullet through this smart head of yours," I growl darkly.

"No," he responds, in a rather weak voice compared to the grandeur he just displayed.

" _What?_ " I ask, not believing how Pitch could deny the man this close to ending his small, insignificant life. He is either incredibly brave or terribly stupid. I am not sure which.

" _No,"_ he says, in a somewhat stronger fashion. "You can say goodbye to your precious necklace because I am _not_ giving it back without-"

 _He doesn't get it. He never will. He can never understand how much that necklace means to me I―I know what I have to do._

I pull the trigger of my pistol with a satisfying click, and I watch his eyes grow wide with fear, and his mouth fall open in surprise. I expect a boom and a scream, and I am waiting for the explosion of powder and metal and blood. But it never comes.

We both stand there, motionless, and unsure of what happens next. I try it again, thinking I didn't squeeze hard enough or maybe it was jammed, and he flinches, but the night stays silent.

I glance up at him, my cheeks hot and flushed with adrenaline (and now embarrassment) but I'm stunned. He looks so _. . . hopeless._ I figured he would be about ready to roast me alive for trying to kill him (twice). But he's _not._ He looks disappointed in me. Like I let him down or he wanted better of me. I almost feel _ashamed_ for it . . . no. That would be insane.

What is Pitch _doing_ to me?

He is still staring at me, and he hasn't said anything since I shot the pistol. It does not make any sense. _What was he expecting? I said I would shoot him if he did not return the necklace, so why is he acting like this? The two of us have been enemies since before we had even met . . ._

"Where are you going, Father?" I asked absentmindedly, as I smashed two little wooden men together on the floor of his throne room. Father was pacing across the room, grabbing random objects and stuffing them into his large grey satchel. His long, bejeweled red and gold cloak swished around his ankles, and his cream white undershirt was wrinkled. The stones were cool and smooth underneath my tummy, and my feet were swinging back and forth above my back.

"That _loathsome_ Pitch woman robbed one of my treasurers. He was on his way to close a vital trading opportunity up North, and we lost all of the bargaining money! I have to discuss a new payment plan with my other advisors. I must leave straight away!" He was angrily trying to get his shiny black boots on, and only ended up more discouraged.

I looked up from my toy soldiers and furrowed my eyebrows. "But Father, you just got home. And we have lots and lots and lots of money, so let the Lady Pitch have some."

"No, Simon. That is not how the law works. She is a thief, and thieves deserve to be punished. Justice has to be served, son. You have much to learn before you are king."

I grumbled about money and laws and how I do not want to be king. I would much rather play with my toys and ride Cherry.

"Speak up, boy. If you have something to say, say it. None of this grumbling nonsense." He wasn't even looking at me. He might have been talking to the wall. Or maybe the floor.

I knew better than to argue with my father, so I stayed silent, and moved into the corner so I was not in his way. He didn't notice.

His gleaming rifle was hanging from two hooks over the fireplace, and he took it down to clean it before heading out. Then, I remembered something Penny had told me earlier, and I became very excited.

" Penny told me a secret today! It is a real good one," I said, nodding my head seriously.

"Is that so?" He was not listening at all. But that was normal.

"Yes, Father, she told me about Miss Lady Pitch and how-"

"Penny? You mean Penelope Bunce? Mitali's girl? Goodness, Simon! Do not listen to a word she says! She's a fool and her mother is a twit. I do not want you running about the castle with the girl that fills your head with utter nonsense!" He still wasn't paying me any attention, but at least he remembered Penny. That was rare.

"Father! She told me that Lady Pitch might have a little boy too, like me! Do you think he would be nice? I would let him play with my toys if he had any toys for me to play with. I wonder if he likes scones . . . I know! I will bring him some when you go-" My words were jumbled, and they spilled out of my mouth like sugar cubes, but I was too happy to care. Father was not.

He whipped around, with closed fists and flames for eyes, and he growled so loud I almost cried. " _No!_ " He snapped, moving closer and closer until I felt the wall against my back. "You will _never_ go anywhere near Pitch or her rumored son! She is unstable and dangerous, and if a child does exist, he will be just as horrid. You are so naive, Simon. Those people will not hesitate to kill you, mark my words."

"B-but, but, what if he wants to be f-friends?" I asked timidly, knowing full well I should have kept my mouth shut.

He raised his roughly calloused hand, as if to strike me, but decided to take me by the shoulders instead. He got to his knees in front of me, the hilt of his dagger knocking against the stone floor, and he whispered harshly, "Simon, as your Father and king of England, I order you to never associate yourself with that wicked woman or her bastard of a son. _Do you understand_?" He was spitting flecks of rage onto my face, and he looked like a monster.

I just wanted a new friend.

He left soon after that.

I forgot about the terrible, violent words when he returned with a smile and presents under his arm. I didn't know any better.

Maybe things would be much simpler now if Father had kept to his word.

 **Baz**

 _What a clumsy moron. He didn't even load his bloody gun. Simon Snow, what am I going to do with you? You can't even end my life without screwing it up. I thought you were going to kill me. You promised._

 _I swear to god, this should not make me want you more, but it does. You are so beautifully idiotic. Someone else kill me now, because apparently, dying by the hands of this gorgeous fool is next to impossible._

 _But maybe you will try to kill me again. Maybe your pistol will be loaded next time. I guess we'll just have to see._

He looks so scared. His cheeks are flushed with crimson blood and his eyes are blown wide with fear. He probably thinks I am going to snap his neck and smile as he dies. I am a monster in his eyes; I can see that. I love it.

And because I'm disturbed, I start to laugh. The future king of England can't shoot a gun. He can't kill the bloke with a morbid sense of humor, and he can't save him either.

I clutch my chest like it was hit with a bullet, and I stagger backwards, crying out, "Snow! You got me! I'm dying, Snow, you shot me with your empty gun and now I am dying! Oh, the pain. The pain!" Tears are streaming down my face from laughing so hard, and the dark forest gives an interesting ambeyonce to the award-winning performance I'm putting on.

I fall to my knees on the damp ground, with one hand over my heart and one reaching for Simon, while he continues to look absolutely bewildered. "Oh, Snow! I can see the light! Tis getting closer and closer as my lungs run out of sweet, sweet breath! My dear Snow, what ever shall I do?" I'm smiling so much it hurts. But I can't stop.

"Simon," I whisper quietly, as the back of my head slowly meets the cold dirt beneath me. "I cannot hold on much longer." I pause for effect, then dramatically gasp, "And . . . death!" My arms go limp and I stick my tongue out to one side of my mouth. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the golden stars in the summer sky, and I listen to the quiet sounds of life that surround us.

Then, I jump to my feet, bow a couple times, and blow kisses to a non-existent audience. "Thank you, thank you! Oh, no, you are too kind. An encore? Oh I don't know about that . . . what do you think, Snow?"

I look at him, smiling and trying to meet his blue eyes that seem silver in the moonlight, but his face is buried in his hands. He starts to shake, and I think he's crying, until he roars with laughter. It explodes into the night, and I think it is the prettiest thing I have ever heard. It sounds like fireworks hitting the sides of church bells: bright and powerful and _loud._

This boy _will_ kill me, one way or another, because his laugh is doing _very_ bad things to me. Bad, forbidden things. _Bloody hell._

I shudder away the dirty feelings and try to focus on the words Snow begins to choke out.

"I-I don't know why I am laughing. I . . . I just cannot stop. This isn't funny but . . ." He grows quiet, just for a second, before bursting out laughing again. "No, it _is_ funny! I cannot do anything right if my life depended on it. And looking back on the last few hours, it has!" He's laughing really hard now. Tears are falling from his blue eyes with stubby eyelashes, and I'm worried that the tears aren't all from the laughter.

"I can't fire a pistol, I can't kill you, I can't be the future king of England everyone expects me to be and―" his voice cracks and I have noticed that his laughs are now heart-wrenching sobs. It's scary how fast you can transition from one to the other. It is much easier than you might think.

"And I can never be enough for my Father. No matter how _hard_ I try," he slams his fist against the tree he was leaning on, "I am never enough. The only person who actually thought I did matter in this damned world was," his voice drops to a trembling whisper, " _my mother._ " His back slides down the trunk of the tree until he collapses in a ball of tears and self-hatred.

I can barely hear his voice; it's so small. "And the last thing she ever gave me was the necklace. Sh-she told me to―" and I never heard what he was going to say, because he sobbed so loud that he lost his breath and could not speak for awhile.

I want to help him. Truly, I do. And I really, _really_ want to him to stop crying like that. It makes me want to start crying. I'm not sure how I haven't already. I want to wrap my arms around his shaking frame and hold him close. I want to run my fingers through his bouncing curls and I want to trace his moles into patterns. And then I want to check the sky for the same patterns, only to see that they are now constellations in the stars. I want to steal him away from this forest and his father and all of England. I want him to lock him away with me and then toss away the key. I want _him._

But I cannot act on any of those urges. Every single one of them will send me straight to the gallows, but then again, it seems like everything is doing that these days. So, I clear my throat and offer my hand to lift him up. And to propose a truce.

"Snow, you did not let me finish. Before you, _interrupted_ me," I shoot him an amused look, "I was going to make a deal with you." He sniffs, and looks up at me curiously. "For the necklace," I clarify, and his eyes grow wide with surprise. My breath gets caught in my throat; he looks so innocent and vulnerable . . . with his messy curls, wide, shining blue eyes, and sun-kissed skin glowing with moonlight. I am so _dead._

His sad, but slightly hopeful voice brings me back. "W-what do you want for it? I have more than enough money, if that is what you desire." He opens his lengthy, dark blue coat and starts to scrounge around the pockets.

There are _so_ many more things I desire besides money, dear Simon. But I cannot tell you that.

"No, no," I wave off the idea, "I have plenty of that. I do not want money."

He shrinks away from me, and his face falls.

"Wait!" I cry, and then mentally hit myself for sounding so desperate. "Wait," I say again, in a hopefully less desperate manor this time. "I want . . . an opportunity."

Well now he looks annoyed. (I am being vague.) But at least he isn't crying anymore. God knows I would have cracked if he hadn't stopped when he did.

"I mean . . . I need to get to close to the king. I have to avenge my mother, Simon. I-I know you won't agree but if you want your nec―"

"Deal." Snow says, nodding his head firmly.

"Excuse me? Did you just . . . did you say _yes_?" I cannot believe what I am hearing. _Did he just agree to let me kill his father?_

"I need that necklace back, Pitch. It's all I have left have of her. And . . . you are referring to what he did to your mother, correct?"

I inhale sharply but jerked my head, 'yes'.

"Well . . . if he needs to face what he did in the past and if you are the one he has to face . . . then I guess that is what has to happen."

He looks at me directly, without any doubt in his eyes, and I still cannot believe it. After so many years of scheming and plotting, and now being closer than ever before? It is unreal. But I am running out of time; the sun will be rising soon, and he needs to be long gone by then.

"Alright then. Here," I step forward and extend my hand out to him. "Truce."

"Truce." He grips my hand tightly, and I do not think either of us can ignore the tiny gasps that escaped our lips. His hand was so warm it was almost _electric,_ and it immediately made my hand feel like ice in comparison.

He lets go all too soon, so I cover up my disappointment by taking a step back and running a hand over my now loose ponytail. "So. Are there any trips the king is taking soon? Perhaps with . . . less guards then usual?" I ask hesitantly, not expecting to get lucky _twice_ in one night.

"No . . ." Snow starts, "he just took his last trip a couple days ago because he has to prepare for the―" he pales slightly, and all of a sudden is finding great interest in the ground.

"What? What does he have to prepare for, Snow?"

"N-no, I cannot say. It is much too important . . . my god, no you can't."

I slink forward and give Simon my best smirk, "We are on a truce, Snow," I purr, "and you agreed to help avenge my mother."

He glares at me, and I sneer right back, but I cannot help but notice the new blush to his cheeks . . .

"Fine!" He shouts defeatedly, combing his fingers through his curls in worry. "The Secret Boutonnière Ball is in a fortnight. It is the most important event of the summer . . . and Father hosts the whole thing."

I remember my mother telling me all about a Secret Boutonnière Ball when I was a child. She even attended one, and that is where she claimed to have met my father. Apparently, all of the available male suitors wear red roses in their lapels, or 'boutonnières' to symbolize they are looking to consort with a young lady. The first three dances of the night are each spent with three ladies, and after the third dance, the man gives the lady of his choosing his boutonnière, and they spend the rest of the party together. It is referred to as the 'Secret' Boutonnière Ball because everyone is required to wear elaborate masks that hide their faces. At midnight, the masks are removed and the ball is over. How _romantic._

I smile innocently while mischievously brilliant ideas fill my head. "A ball, you say? How absolutely _delightful_."


	5. Plots and Plans

**Simon**

I pale considerably as a smile rips across Pitch's face. The Secret Boutonnière Ball is exactly what it sounds like: over-moneyed and utterly pointless at the same time that it's beautiful, and curious. It's something that you know you have absolutely no use for, but it's just too shiny not to pick up and slip into your pocket.

The kingdom prides itself on the success of the Secret Boutonnière Ball every summer, and I have no doubt that whatever Pitch is plotting in that mind of his, the effects will be _catastrophic._ No good can come of this, but when does anything good come of Pitch? I was supposed to stay strictly to the path set for me by my father, because that's what a good son does. But I stepped off of that path, and I ran away from that path, and I bloody _threw_ myself off of that path and this is where I landed. I'm breathing the air between us as it churns with hazardous possibility, and as our truce marks us with the imprints of our fingertips. My dirty tears are pressed into his light brown skin, and his black dust pressed into mine.

But when his grey eyes flash up towards the rising sun, he picks up the pistol I dropped by the tree, shoves it into my satchel, and pivots on his boot heel, beginning to walk through the forest. Far away I can hear Cherry's whines, so I mentally tell her I will see her soon.

"Oi, idiot, where do you think you are going? We have much more planning to do," I huff, motioning for him to come back. He continues walking away from me. _What game is he playing?_

"I am not familiar with how you vigilante types do this sort of thing, but this isn't something we can just agree on and be done with." He looks over his shoulder, rolling his eyes, but beckons me to follow him as he takes off running. I shout, and chase after him.

Pitch is bloody _fast,_ darting in and out of the trees like some wild animal, his fingers brushing away twigs and leaves. And even with his long coat billowing out behind him like a flag, I am finding it difficult to keep up with him. Luckily his coat snags on a low branch and he has to untangle it.

" _Wait_ ," I pant, holding out my hand to stop him. He raises a sharp eyebrow that just barely makes it past the top of his velvet mask, and breathes lightly. He graciously looks away as I embarrassingly put my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. _Since when is Pitch polite? And why would I care if I embarrass myself in front of him? Because I don't._

I eye his almost unlaced white undershirt, the beginnings of a reddish-gold chest and collar bones peeking out from underneath, as he studies the trees around us. He looks up, and his eyes follow the curling grey tendrils of smoke I saw earlier until they seem to blend with the forest. His face briefly spikes with worry as he stares at something I cannot see, and I think he might start running again, but he then decides to lean against a tall oak trunk. He instantly looks annoyed as he turns back to me.

"Where are you trying to run off to, Pitch? Got yourself a pretty little date or something?" I ask, cracking a smile.

"Or something," he deadpans.

I shake my head, curls bouncing as I do. "Well I'm not blindly following you into the woods. You could be leading me into a trap."

He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes again. "We _just_ struck a truce, Snow, so you can help me avenge my mother. Why would I 'lead you into a trap' or make an attempt at your life in any way when I obviously need you alive?"

 _Good job, Simon, on thinking about your words before you let them fall out of your big mouth._

"I uh . . . didn't think of that," I say, scratching the back of my neck and scuffing my boot into the dirt.

He sighs. "Of course you didn't."

It's not fair of him to assume so little of me when we've barely known each other for a day. I am not an idiot I just . . . it's difficult thinking sometimes.

My cheeks flush angrily and I open my mouth to spit something back at him, but he cuts me off.

"Look, I just have . . . some things I have to keep safe. And you being here is endangering that."

I scoff. _What could_ I _ever do to something Pitch needs to protect? Does he think I'm going to steal his already stolen jewels and coins? Honestly._

"Hey," he says, "I can't have the future king of England hanging around here and you know that. It only means trouble, and I cannot have that around them, understand?"

His voice is unwavering, but fear is hiding in the corner of his stormy eyes. _Interesting._

"So now 'things' has turned into 'them'? What are . . . what are you hiding, Pitch? Care to share with me? I mean, we _are_ on a truce," I ask pointedly, twisting his own words and shooting them back at him.

"None of your damn business," he snaps, his black ponytail whipping behind him as he pushes off of the tree and stalks towards me.

"Actually, it _is_ my damn business," I spit, stepping forward to meet him. "We are in this together, and since whatever it is you are hiding concerns me, it's my problem now too. I do not plan on going back on our truce, do you?"

He stares at me through his mask, silently fuming, and leans in so our noses are almost touching. He smells like the forest does when it rains, but I don't think about that.

"No," he whispers darkly, "No, I am not."

I growl at him. "Then tell me. What you are hiding."

He lays a cool hand on my chest, fingers twisting my shirt until it's clenched between his gloved fingers.

"You will not _breathe_ a single word of what I am about to tell you, do you understand, Snow?"

"Yes."

He lets me go and steps back, pointing in the direction of the smoke.

"A ways over there is a cottage. In that cottage are two children, a mother, and a father. I swore to protect them, which means keeping them away from all of my personal affairs. And that includes you. So stay far, far away from them or so help me Snow, I will bloody _end_ you."

I stare at him in disbelief. _Captain Pitch, a thieving, rogue highwayman, is worried sick about the safety of a family, with children no less? Is it his family? I never took him for a family-man but then again I have only known him for a day._

"You-you have a family?"

His gaze drops to the ground, and his jaw tenses.

"No, but they are the closest thing I have to one."

I wince. "Oh, um, I'm sor-".

His head raises and his eyes scream at me to stop speaking.

"Don't," he whispers fiercely, "Don't say something you do not mean."

My whole face burns shamefully and he looks at me like he did when I tried to kill him. Disappointed and hopeless. I do not say anything, because there isn't anything I can say.

He clears his throat and kicks a rock at me.

It hits my leg and falls to the ground.

"Ow."

He snorts. And it's okay again.

"So," he starts, pacing back and forth in front of me, "as you obviously pointed out before, we have much work to do before the ball." He looks up at the early morning sky streaked with warm colors and quickly turns back to me. "And we're running out of time here. We will have to meet some other time to discuss our plans. Preferably at night, when it is safer."

"Well then Pitch, where do you suggest we meet?" I ask, letting him have the reigns on this one since I do not know these woods as well as he does.

He thinks for a moment before responding, "There is a small clearing, about five-hundred paces east to the road where we first met." He looks at me through thick eyelashes, and a smile flickers across his lips. I blush, remembering the events of that afternoon.

I cough and he looks away. "It is safe?" I ask, trying to somewhat follow Penny's earlier instructions of not dying.

"Safe enough."

I shrug, "Sounds good to me. Shall we rendezvous there at, say, dusk?"

His steely eyes lock onto mine and he nods, once.

I turn away from him and face the east, pointing out through the trees and into the distance. "So I'm guessing that the area a ways over there is where the clearing is, yes? I would like to make sure I do not end up lost again."

I wait for his response but he doesn't answer.

"Pitch?" I ask, turning back towards him. But he's already gone, leaving nothing but a whisper of cedar and light bootprints. And the only ones around to hear me are the trees.

I leave Cherry in the stables after thoroughly brushing and feeding her. It is early enough for the servants to be up but I fortunately do not run into any as I sneak across the courtyard and down the hall to my room. I decide I'm going to find Penny after I set down my things and change clothes.

Her mother and father, the Duke and Duchess of my father's kingdom, have been putting a lot of pressure on her to start being the Lady she's 'supposed to be'. And being around me all the time is making it worse. I have told her time and time again to stop always sneaking into my room if it is going to get her in trouble, but she always pats me on the cheek and says the day she stops coming into my room will be the day I stop eating Cook Pritchard's sour cherry scones. I am so lucky to have Penny as my best friend.

I open the heavy wooden door and quietly slip inside, closing it behind me. As soon as I turn around, a mass of purple dress fabric with a mane of brown curls throws itself into my arms. I know it's Penny the second she starts yelling at me for being so late. I drop my satchel and pistol onto my desk, with Penny still clutching me like she might never let go, until I wrap my arms around her tightly and reassure her that I'm alright.

She then shoves me into a chair and pokes my chest with a very accusatory finger.

"How _dare_ you, Simon Snow, leave me here _alone_ , not knowing where the _hell_ you are or what the _hell_ you are doing, _all bloody night_?"

"Pen, I know, I know bu-"

"No," she laughs bitterly, "No, you do not know. In fact, you have no bloody idea! You tell me you are off to chase down and fight an infamous and dangerous highwayman, and yet all you have is a horse and an empty pistol!"

I open my mouth to ask her how she knows about the pistol but she answers before I can.

"Don't you dare interrupt me, Simon. I knew because after I came back here to wait for you, I found the bullets on your desk."

I bury my face in my hands as she takes the bullets out of her pocket and puts them in my satchel. _Idiot, idiot, idiot!_

"Yes, that is correct, you forgot to check if your pistol was bloody _loaded_ before you rode off into the sunset! And it is not like I could have just waltzed on out of here and tracked you down because _you didn't tell me where you were going._ I swear to _God_ , Simon, if you do not tell me exactly everything that has happened to you from the moment you left me to the moment you came back, I will never let you leave this castle _again_."

"Yes, Penny," I mumble, feeling too ashamed to meet her eye.

Her shoulders relax and she sighs, pulling out my desk chair so she can sit in front of me. Penny scoots her chair closer until our knees are pressed together. She takes my hands away from my face and holds them in her softer, smaller ones, and leans forward so our foreheads knock against each other.

"Hey," Penny says softly, her words floating over to me with the scent of sage and chocolate. She nudges my chin up with her finger. "Look at me."

I look at her.

"Simon, you are my best friend and the person I love most in this world, and if anything were to happen to you, I do not know how I would live with myself."

I try to respond but she shushes me.

"I . . . I want to protect you, Simon Snow, from anything and everything that might hurt you." I squeeze her hand. She squeezes back. "That is never going to change, but I know that when you have your heart set on something, that also is never going to change. It is one of the things I love about you. You are so. Bloody. Stubborn."

I chuckle quietly and she gives me a thin smile.

"So, I guess what I am trying to say is that I cannot stop you, not in the slightest, but I want to be involved and I want to know what is going on and I want to have your back, Simon. I cannot do that if I am here, uselessly worrying about you and watching all of my hair turn grey. Please, tell me what happened. I am right here. Tell me."

I do tell her. And it goes almost the same way as I expected it to go.

Penny yells and gets out of her chair and paces around the room and sits back down in her chair and cries and yells again and then yells some more. I tell her about how I tried to pull the trigger on Pitch (twice), and she screams at me about what exactly killing someone does to a person and how lucky I am that he didn't strangle me on the spot and how if I ever try anything like that again, Pitch will be the least of my worries because _she_ will be the one to kill me and of course, she accentuates each word with an angry fist to my chest.

I tell Penny about my breakdown, and she hugs me so fiercely I think I forget to breathe for a moment. I tell her about our truce and the deal we struckㅡmy necklace for his revengeㅡand she asks more questions than I know the answers to.

" _Do . . . do you want him to kill your father, Simon?"_

" _Of course not. I am not going to actually let him do it. Pitch only asked for an opportunity and that is what I'll give him. He never said he had to kill my father in order for me to get my necklace back. And I will stop him if he gets too close."_

" _But, Simon, this is not what he wanted to happen at al-"_

" _I know, Pen. But that necklace means too much to me. I have to do this."_

" _Fine. But I am going with you. I am going to meet this Captain Pitch and we are going to get him into the Secret Boutonnière Ball and we are getting your necklace back."_

" _Penny, I really do not think-"_

" _No, Simon, you cannot stop me on this one. If you continue to say no, I'll just follow you. You know I will. You might as well just give in now and save us the hassle later. Come on, Si."_

" _Alright, Lady Penelope. You can come with me."_

" _Thank you, Simon, but I wasn't really giving you a choice. I was coming whether you said yes or not."_

" _I know, Penny."_

As the day goes on, it grows hotter, and soon both of us are drowsy from the summer heat. We talk, taking breaks to eat scones Penny brought from the kitchens, until we fall asleep, waking only when my room is much cooler and the sunlight is slowly receding.

I pack up my satchel with extra food for the both of us, and double-check to see that my pistol is loaded. I do not plan on using it, but it is better to be safe than to be sorry. Penny steals a pair of black trousers, hunting boots, a laced white shirt, and a long brown coat from my wardrobe. She looks ready for war.

She grabs my hand as we sneak down to the stables, hiding in corners when servants walk by, until we make it to Cherry's stall. Cherry whinnies a hello, and Penny strokes her mane a couple of times in response. I clamber on top of my horse, but instead of saying goodbye to Penny, I get to hoist her up with me instead.

We walk Cherry down the road and over the drawbridge, until at last we reach the forest path. Penny tightens her grip around my waist and her long, wild curls tickle the back of my neck as she leans in to whisper something in my ear.

"Let's go find your highwayman."


	6. Hidden Homes and Little Puffs

**Baz**

My fingers slowly work to untie my velvet mask from behind my head as I trudge up the stone path towards the cottage. On either side of me are overgrown plants: weeds and flowers alike, intertwined to the point of not knowing where the weeds end and the flowers begin. They construct a sort of barrier from the rest of the world, leaving the humble cottage hidden, and far away from prying eyes. The thatched straw roof blankets the entire stone structure, with vines and moss creeping up the sides. From the front, the cottage is almost nonexistent; shielded by the strangely beautiful greenery. But behind the cottage, the forest stands guard, serious and strong, defending our home and tiny farm. We have bountiful fruit and vegetable gardens, and a lovely flower garden between two towering elm trees, a neat little chicken coop close to the cottage, and a wooden sheep pen in a clearing off to the side, about fifty paces west.

I loved Caelia and Caleb's cottage because that was where I lived with my mother. It was a place she came back to after every job. The cottage was somewhere safe, and she didn't have to spend every other waking moment looking over her shoulder. I got to watch her walk through the door as she untied her velvet mask, her disguise and mystery slipping off until all that remained underneath was Natasha Pitch, my mother.

I don't think I have ever felt more loved: in the strong arms of my mother while her lips are pressed to my head, while Caelia's song to her babes floated lazily around the room, and the only interruptions being Caleb stoking warm crackles from the fireplace.

I still love the cottage, only it hurts more now. Everything reminds me of her. The crooked dining table she always crouched under when we played hide and seek, and then grinned at me for finding her again and again, even though we both knew she would never hide anywhere else. The mantle over the fireplace that she used to lean on, watching me play with my toys until she couldn't stand it, and she sank down right next to me so that we could play together. My bed, the bed that used to be _our_ bed, where she held me so tight against her chest, always fearing that sleeping with me in her arms left us vulnerable, only to keep not only her monsters away, but mine as well. The children reminded me of my mother more often than I would like to admit. On my bad days, I can only see them as the horrified and confused faces they wore when they found me, half-dead and half-alive. But it has gotten better, and I try not to dwell on my past when there's work to be done.

I slip the mask into my satchel and silently open the door. It is early, a bit too early for the small ones to be awake, but I'm not far from their preferred hour of awakeness. The cottage is quiet and still, soaking up the cool morning sun before it becomes too hot to be enjoyable.

There are three rooms. One is my room. I have tried again and again to explain that I do not need my own room, that I can easily, and will gladly, sleep in the common area, but Caelia and Caleb insist, and sometimes I fear that their never-ending kindness will get them hurt one day. Which is why I can never put them in harm's way. I made a promise to my mother to keep them safe, so that is what I shall do.

The second room belongs to Caelia, Caleb, and the children. The only time I feel a sliver of non-guilt is when I am reminded that they have the safest room in the cottage. (Their door has a lock. My mother installed it once she decided her work was getting too dangerous. She . . . didn't get the chance to put one on our door.) Caelia and Caleb sleep in the bed, and the bottom pulls out as a trundle bed for Natasha and Oliver.

The third room is the common room, kitchen, and dining table combined. A small but scrappy fireplace lives against the back wall, never scared to defy our expectations of the fire burning out, and instead keeping it fed long past the wee hours of the night. A worn bear-skin rug, the fruits of one of Caleb's more successful hunting expeditions, lays in front of the fireplace, and holds the feeling of little feet pattering over it, tiny wheels being rolled all around, and uncontrollable laughter from the tickle fights that have ended on top. A few wooden chairs are scattered about the room, having been tipped over more times than anyone can count, and then there's the handsome rocking chair in the corner, being Caleb's past gift to Caelia. The dining table is closer to the kitchen, which has Caleb's rugged, black as coal cast-iron stove. Caelia bought it for him with almost a year's worth of savings from her garden. Caleb is crazy about cooking, and I must say, the man is damn good at it. There are also a couple of mismatched pots and pans hanging from nails on the wall, and a knife block on the counter, with silver handles sticking out. (My mother's contribution to the kitchen, of course.)

It really is a lovely cottage.

I sigh, running my hand over my head and pull down the ribbon keeping my hair up, feeling it brush against my cheeks as it settles on my shoulders. I wander into my room, gently pushing the door closed before I turn around and collapse onto my bed. I tug off my boots and am shoving them under my bed, when my fingers brush cool metal. I reach down further, and grab the object, immediately recognizing it as my lost pistol. I set it down on my bedside table and lay back down, throwing an arm over my eyes, and cursing myself for not looking harder for it. I could have needed it.

But I know that is not true.

I could never kill him. Not when the curves and ridges of his chest are the reason behind my warm cheeks. Not when his soft blue eyes that shine when he's crying and burn when he's not haunt my dreams. Not whenthe moles and freckles sprinkled on his face are all I see in the dark.

I could never kill him. Not when he's breathing hard and fast and his knuckles are white from clenching the pistol held to my head. Not when he pulls the trigger and watches me flinch. Not when he pulls the trigger for the second time, and then looks terrified when nothing happens.

I could never kill him. Not when he laughs so loud that he breaks himself. Not when he cries in front of a violent stranger with no hopes of comfort. Not when he agrees to help avenge a mother's death.

So even if he tries to kill me again, and I know it is bound to happen, I could still never kill him. 

Yellow light from my small window bathes me in lazy summer warmth, and I doze off.

I awake to the sound of pounding feet outside my door and hushed, ecstatic voices.

I hear Tasha first. "Mama, mama! Can we see him? Please?"

And then there's Olly. "Yeah, can we?"

Caelia laughs. "First of all, it is 'may I' not 'can I'. And second of all, no, I don't think so. I am sure he had a long night, and needs his rest. Come along, loves. Let's let him sleep."

I smile in spite of only getting a couple hours to nap. I missed them. All of these truces and plans of vengeance have gotten in the way of spending time with two of my favorite people in the whole world. I owe them.

"Aw Caelia, it's alright. I'm already awake; might as well let them in."

I can hear the little gasps of delight and the smile in Caelia's voice.

"Well then, you both better get in there."

A moment later my door is thrown open and two giggling blurs catapult themselves right at me.

"Hiya, Baz," shrieks Tasha, squirming as I squeeze her tight. (This family are the only people in the world who call me 'Baz'. It's too personal for anyone else.)

"Hiya, Tasha," I respond, just as enthusiastic.

I rest my cheek against her head and look up, locking eyes with a smiling Olly at the end of my bed.

"C'mere," I say extending my other arm. He beams at me, and scrambles forward, letting his head thud against my chest as I hug him too.

"How are my little puffs?" I ask, ruffling their wavy cocoa hair.

"Baaaaazzzz," Tasha whines, "You can't call us that anymore. We are _thirteen_ , not _three."_

I make a face of mock offence. " _Fine._ How are my _thirteen_ year old little puffs?"

Tasha sticks out her tongue. I stick out my tongue right back. Olly just rolls his eyes.

I turn my head, frowning at Olly. "Where did you learn to do that?"

He rolls his eyes again. "From you."

I try not to smirk. "Well try not to do it around your mother, yeah? It's rude."

He nods quickly, and I wink back.

Natasha and Oliver are so, so important to me. They are incredibly sweet and playful, love their family fiercely, and are too smart for their own good. Natasha is cunning and mischievous, just like her namesake. Oliver is charming and sunny, throwing around his easy-going nature like it's nothing. Natasha looks more like her father, with a thin nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that make you question if they are looking at you, or something _past_ you, something your simple eyes cannot comprehend. Oliver looks more like his mother, with apple cheeks, broad shoulders, and a smile that could melt steel. I wish I could give them more. Stolen jewels and coins goes far, but not as far as you deserve the world, these two.

Once they've settled down, I am thoroughly caught up on all of the comings and goings of their lives in the past day. One of the sheep finally had her baby, and his name is now Peep.

" _Get it?" Olly and Tasha giggled, poking me in the cheek. "Because Peep and sheep rhyme!"_

 _I sighed._

" _Peep the sheep it is, I guess."_

Caelia taught Tasha how to weave flowers into braids when she's doing her hair.

" _Um, Baz?" She asked hesitantly._

" _Yes, puff?"_

" _Can I . . . can I braid your hair and put in some flowers like mummy showed me?"_

 _I grinned, and then said rather matter-of-factly while fluffing my hair, "You know, I have been meaning to change up my look for quite some time. I think a new hairstyle is exactly what I need right now."_

 _Happy laughter spilled from her mouth, and no sooner than that did I feel the tug of fingers on my hair, and the faint scent of daisies wafting over my shoulder._

And Olly baked a chocolate cake all by himself.

" _Baz! You just have to try this," he bragged, holding out a piece of cake for me, "because I made it all. By. My. Self. Can you believe that? And it's so good! And I made it!_

 _I laugh as I clumsily stuff it into my mouth, and then make a very loud 'mmmm' sound._

" _Olly!" I exclaim, looking at him in shock. "You were right! It's really, really good! I love it, thank you!"_

 _He just smiles with chocolate cake in the corners of his mouth._

But eventually it's time for me to help Caelia and Caleb with the chores outside, so I tell the children to get going on the inside chores. They groan and grumble while they get started, but at least they're doing them.

I make my way out to the garden and lightly touch Caelia on the arm. She turns around, her rich brown skin shining in the sun, and smiles warmly at me.

"Oh, Baz! Hi! Have you come to help me? I'm just pulling weeds at the moment, but I haven't gotten over by the vegetables yet. Maybe you can work on that?"

I kiss her cheek and she playfully swats me away. "Of course I will. I'll do it now, in fact."

I carefully step around Caelia's flower garden, and then kneel down on an empty patch of dirt near the vegetables. I push up my sleeves and sink my fingers into the warm, crumbly earth, grabbing unwanted stems and tossing them aside. The sky is clear today, and the leaves from the trees above us rustle softly. Caelia starts to hum a little tune and I close my eyes for a moment, just soaking everything in. When I open them, Caelia is staring at me thoughtfully.

I chuckle. "What is it?"

"Well," she starts, smiling a little, "I think you like someone."

"What?" I splutter, blushing almost instantly. "No, I most certainly do not."

"Yes, honey, you do."

I quickly shake my head.

 _Bloody hell._

"You have this . . . look in your eye, that I have never seen before."

She cocks her head as if she's trying to see me at a better angle. "Or maybe it had just been so long ago, I had forgotten what it looks like on you."

I stare at my hands.

"So," she says, standing up and brushing herself off before walking over to me "Did you meet them on the road?"

I jump to my feet and wipe my hands on my trousers. She catches my eye and I give her a small nod before I look away.

"Are they pretty? I bet they are."

I whisper, "Caelia, they are pretty like the sky is blue."

She looks at me, then. She looks at me with soft and knowing eyes, and gently asks, "Baz, what is his name?"

I choke. "H-how d-did yo-,"

She puts her arm around my shoulders and shushes me.

"Baz, please, please do not worry. I love you so much, and I only want you to be happy."

I bury my hands in my face. I think I start to cry. She just brings me closer.

Maybe there is something more to say, but neither of us know what it is. Instead we stand there, her arm around my shoulder, both of us smelling like earth and chocolate cake.

When the sun begins its descent across the sky, we go inside. I help Caleb with cooking supper. Once it is finished, the five of us sit down at our crooked dining table, and eat together. I clear the dishes while the small ones wipe the table, and by then it is almost dusk.

I say good night to Tasha and Olly, promising that I will be more on time coming home tomorrow. I quickly give Caelia and Caleb my goodbyes and I am almost out the door when Caelia pulls me back a little.

"You are going to see him, right? That's what this is all about, yeah?" She asks quietly, brushing the hair away from my forehead.

I inspect my boots for mud. "Yes . . . well, no, but . . . uh, sort of. It's complicated."

If I told Caelia any of my plan for avenging my mother, she would never let me step foot outside this cottage again. So if letting her think I am spending all of my nights running after the prettiest boy in the forest, (which is not terribly far off from the truth) then I guess that's what I will have to do.

She nods understandingly, and does not ask any other questions, which I am eternally grateful for. "No matter. You are still going to see him and that makes you happy, so I encourage you to go."

 _Oh Caelia. He does not make me happy. He makes me weak._

I smile sadly, and briefly squeeze her shoulder as a way of thanks. Then I dart out of the doorway, though our shield of flower-weeds, and into the forest.


End file.
